


Of Elvish crafts and hobbit skills

by bagma



Series: Of Elvish crafts and hobbit skills [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagma/pseuds/bagma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo has lost an item essential to his (very!) promiscuous sex life, and Sam is more than ready to lend a helping hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A painful breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frodosweetstuff asked for a fic in which gaydar would make an appearance](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=frodosweetstuff+asked+for+a+fic+in+which+gaydar+would+make+an+appearance).



It took a whole fortnight for Sam to realise that something was wrong with Frodo. But once he did, he was unable to stop beating himself up for not noticing it sooner. One could have argued in Sam's defence that Frodo had been his usual polite and composed self, but that was not a good excuse in Sam's book, nor was the fact that Yule was drawing near and Sam had been incredibly busy. Frodo was his master, and Sam had always prided himself on being a perfect servant, anticipating Frodo's every need or desire and trying his best to satisfy them before Frodo had even thought about expressing them. The Gamgees always had high standards in service, and Sam couldn't stand the idea of not being up to them. And yet in this instance, it seemed he had well and truly failed.

Sam's first clue that there was some trouble brewing had been the fact that Frodo had started to come back home unusually early in the evening. Sam was used to see Frodo disappear after supper every second day or so, to have a drink or two at the Dragon or elsewhere, and he was also accustomed to leaving Bag End and getting back to his own smial before Frodo was home. Lately though, he often bumped into his master on the road as he was climbing down the Hill, and while Frodo never failed to wish him a good night and give him a sweet smile that made Sam's heart swell in his chest, Sam couldn't help noticing that Frodo looked a tad disappointed, and that his step lacked its usual spring.

There was something changed in Frodo's morning ritual too, and that particular modification was in direct relation with his starting to spend most of his evenings at home. Frodo had never been an early bird, and Sam used to serve him first breakfast (and sometimes second breakfast as well) in bed. It was not a chore, as Sam kept telling him every time Frodo expressed some embarrassment at being treated like an invalid. It was Sam's duty to cook his master's meals, Sam had explained repeatedly, and putting food and cutlery on a tray instead of the kitchen table was not a problem. Quite the contrary, actually. Sam would never dare confess it to Frodo, and he barely admitted it to himself, but the simple truth was that he loved bringing him breakfast in bed. It gave him the chance to have Frodo to himself for a few precious moments, and he greatly enjoyed being able to admire him to his heart's content as he was pottering around the bedroom, straightening knick-knacks and picking up discarded clothes. Frodo looked good enough to eat with his hair all tousled, his pink cheeks and his sleepy smile, and Sam wouldn't have changed places with anyone for all the pipe-weed in South Farthing.

The only thing dampening Sam's pleasure at the prospect of bringing Frodo breakfast in bed was that sometimes Frodo wasn't alone in said bed. Every time it happened -more often than Sam would have liked, but then Frodo was such a handsome hobbit, it was no wonder he had so much success- Sam would resign himself to coming back to the kitchen and lay the table with enough food to satisfy the appetite of two hobbits who were, without doubt, in dire need of sustenance. He wasn't really jealous, Sam would tell himself those mornings. No, he was just mildly annoyed at being deprived of the little tête-à-tête he appreciated so much. And sometimes he even managed to believe that it was true. 

He never waited in the kitchen for Frodo and his playmates to make an appearance, though. Hobbiton wasn't exactly a metropolis, and he was sure he knew most of them, at least by sight. The last thing he wanted was to discover that Frodo's lover du jour was, say, the baker's son who had been Sam's own playmate when they were eighteen, or worse, the tailor's son who had been his sworn enemy when he was ten and whose lip he had split in a fight. That would have been awfully awkward, and definitely not something he cared to inflict upon his master and himself.

So, after two weeks of finding Frodo alone and well awake at eight in the morning, Sam started to wonder. He watched him more closely than ever, anxiously searching for tell-tale signs of illness, but Frodo looked perfectly healthy, if a little preoccupied. And there was the matter of his coming home uncharacteristically early, and on his own. Maybe he was just getting tired of collecting bedmates, which was something Sam would thoroughly approve of. Not that he would ever have the nerve to bring up such a delicate subject with Frodo, of course. His master's amorous exploits were none of Sam's business, and that was a fact.

Then, the morning before Yule, Sam entered Bag End just after the sun had risen and found Frodo sitting at the kitchen table in Bilbo's old robe, staring morosely into his teacup. He greeted Sam with a feeble “Hullo!” and a wobbly smile, and Sam stifled a cry. His master was sporting a truly spectacular black eye, purple and swollen, and his normally perfectly chiselled nose looked like a potato. All Sam's concern about discretion and properness evaporated at once, like droplets of water on a hotplate. Someone had hurt his master, and that was definitively Sam's business.

He strode across the kitchen, threw the freshly baked gingerbread Marigold had given him for Frodo's breakfast onto the table and took Frodo's head between his hands. Frodo looked a little startled at Sam's bold gesture and his good eye widened, but he didn't resist. The morning sunlight fell on his tilted face, making the colours of the bruises stand out in all their lurid glory. His skin glistened with unguent, and he smelled strongly of camphor and arnica.

“What happened to you? Have you been in a fight?” Sam asked, more harshly than he intended to. His tone of voice made him flinch, but Frodo didn't seem to mind Sam's unusual comportment and let himself be handled with uncharacteristic passivity. 

“I've been a fool, Sam, and I've paid the price, that's all. There's nothing to be worried about, really. I got worse when I was a tween, I assure you,” he answered with a mirthless little laugh.

“I can't imagine you doing something foolish enough to earn you a punch in the face, Mr. Frodo! Who did that to you? Why?” Sam insisted, his voice tight with anger. His gaffer was always saying that a good servant knew better than to pry into his betters' private life, and until now Sam had religiously followed his father's teachings, but he found out that his respect for the pieces of paternal advice he had been inundated with ever since he was all but a toddler paled in comparison with the need to comfort Frodo and, to be perfectly honest, to beat his aggressor to a pulp. 

With a heavy sigh, Frodo freed himself from Sam's hands and motioned him to sit down beside him. Sam perched stiffly on the bench, staring at his master. Frodo looked tired, uncomfortable and more than a little embarrassed, and he was clearly debating whether to answer Sam's questions. It took Frodo a little time to make up his mind, but after a couple minutes spent fidgeting and wriggling in his seat, he squared his shoulders and started talking.

“Well, I guess I'd better tell you what happened before you hear it from every gossip in town. But I have to warn you, it's not a pretty story, and it was quite humiliating, to tell you the truth. I don't think I've been so ashamed of myself since the time I was caught pilfering mushrooms...” Frodo sounded so sad and discomfited that Sam had to sit on his hands to resist the overwhelming urge to take him in his arms and smothering him with kisses, which would have surely put an end to Frodo's confidences. Incorrectness had its limits!

“You don't need to worry, Mr. Frodo. I can't see you doing something truly shameful,” he said earnestly.

Frodo managed a smile, but he didn't look entirely convinced. Sam waited as Frodo cleared his throat, drank a little tea and fastidiously rearranged the folds of his robe on his lap before continuing with his confession.

“I said I've been a fool, and I'm sticking to it. Nothing would have happened if I had been more careful... or less horny, I reckon. If I had been more careful, I wouldn't have lost Bilbo's queer pointer, and if I'd been less horny I wouldn't have propositioned the wrong lad. I've been relying too much on Elvish crafts this past year, I'm afraid, and I seem to have lost my... perspicacity, shall we say. Maybe I need to revert to more basic hobbit skills,” Frodo said sombrely. He drank the last of his tea, put his empty teacup on the table, then looked up at Sam. His eyes weren't as startlingly gorgeous as they used to be -the left one was reduced to a slit, the right one was bloodshot-, but the effect they had on Sam was as devastating as ever. “What do you think, Sam? What should I do? I could use your advice.” 

It was Sam's turn to fidget and fumble for words. He was absolutely delighted to have Frodo asking his opinion about his less than satisfying love life, and he was in complete agreement about his master's tendency to proposition inadequate lads and the need for him to be more careful, but for the life of him he couldn't make sense of the rest of Frodo words. What had Frodo being beaten black and blue had to do with Elvish crafts? And what was that thing of Bilbo's Frodo was talking about anyway?


	2. An awkward conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo tries to describe a queer pointer, and Sam realises that, alas, he's already seen one.

“I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Frodo. I'd like to help you, but I'm not sure I understand what the matter is... What have you lost, exactly?” Sam asked tentatively.

“My Elvish queer pointer... You know, the one Bilbo gave me before he left... It disappeared two weeks ago, and I can't remember where I put it,” Frodo answered. He sounded slightly surprised at Sam's admission of ignorance.

“I'm afraid I don't know what a queer pointer is, sir,” Sam said regretfully. Well, that settled it. Frodo was never going to confide in him again. Why would he choose an ignorant gardener as his confidant when he had so many sophisticated friends and cousins, who surely knew all there was to know about Elvish technology, at his disposal? 

“Really? I was sure I told you about it,” Frodo said, seemingly unaware of Sam's attack of self-doubts. “Never mind. The queer pointer is a small device that Elrond gave Bilbo the last time he stayed in Rivendell, and he made good use of it, I can tell you! But when he left he decided he didn't need it any more and gave it to me. A wonderful gift, but as I said I think I've started to rely too much on it, and my intuition has gone dreadfully rusty lately. I've learned it the hard way last night.” He gingerly fingered his bruised eyebrow and winced. Impulsively, Sam reached up and grasped Frodo's hand.

“Don't... You'll make things worse!” 

“I'd be hard-pressed to imagine how things could get worse, really. I look like a scarecrow, and I must be the laughing stock of the West Farthing by now. There was quite a crowd at the Dragon yesterday evening,” Frodo said. Sam's first impulse was to soothe his master's distress by denying those allegations vigorously, but he was all too familiar with his fellow hobbits' love of gossip, especially where Bagginses were concerned, and honesty prevailed over blind loyalty. Besides, it was true that Frodo looked a little like a scarecrow, with his oversized robe hanging from his slim shoulders and his multicoloured face.

“Well, maybe you do at that... But a lovely scarecrow, then, and one I wouldn't mind coming near if I were a bird,” Sam blurted out, then bit his lip to keep himself from uttering another stupid comment. To his relief, Frodo didn't seem to mind his servant's foolishness; he even smiled faintly at the silly remark. He didn't let go of Sam's hand either, which Sam found both exhilarating and unnerving. He hoped his palm wouldn't start sweating. Maybe he'd better steer the conversation back to the original subject.

“But, Mr. Frodo, I'm not sure I really understand what a queer pointer does... How does it work, exactly?”

“I'm afraid Elvish technology is somewhat beyond me, Sam, so I can't really explain how it works. But you don't need to understand the technique in order to use it; you just press the button, and voilà! you're set for the night, or for the rest of your life, depending of what you're looking for, of course. But I've never...” Frodo broke off, frowning thoughtfully, and Sam barely swallowed a groan of frustration. Frodo was a talkative hobbit, and like Bilbo he had a slightly pedantic streak that tended to make his explanatory speeches a little too detailed sometimes, but the recent events had clearly subdued his usually articulate self. At that very moment his meanderings were exasperating in the extreme, and Sam had to fight the urge to grasp his master's shoulders and shake a clear explanation out of him.

“Now, now, Mr. Frodo,” he said, keeping his tone respectful but firm. “I can't make head nor tail of what you're saying. You need to make yourself clear. So, what is that queer pointer used for, and what does it have to do with you being beaten?” Frodo's face fell, and Sam felt his master's bony hand tighten in his own.

“I'm sorry, Sam, I'm in such a befuddled state that I can't think straight,” Frodo groaned. “Let's try again. You see, the queer pointer allows its user to determine whether the... er... object of one's affection is susceptible to... er... answer positively to one's advances, if you know what I mean... Well, obviously, you don't,” Frodo said after a quick glance at Sam's face, which was getting redder and redder by the second. “I'll be blunt, then. You know I like boys, yes? It's not always easy to find a willing partner, as you can well imagine. Well, the queer pointer changes colour when directed at a lad who shares my proclivities, and that spares me a lot of tiptoeing around and soothing offended sensibilities... or failing to soothe them, as the case might be,” he concluded, gesturing at his bruised face with his free hand. The other one was still nestled into Sam's, and Sam was starting to wonder whether that was voluntary or just a side effect of Frodo's preoccupation. Either way, he wouldn't be the one who let go first.

“ I hope I didn't shock you, Sam,” Frodo said after a moment's silence.

“Oh no, you didn't!” Sam answered hastily, blushing anew. “I just... I don't know what to say, and I don't know how to help you either. I'm really sorry you lost such an useful thing, and it's not as if we could find another queer pointer in the Shire...” To his consternation, Sam began to realise that he wasn't entirely unhappy about the disappearance of the fateful thing. Of course Frodo being beaten made his blood boil with anger, but the prospect of his beloved -but undeniably promiscuous- master being forced to a little more restraint wasn't without its appeal. As soon as that thought occurred to him, he was filled with shame. What a bad servant he was! He should have been looking for a way to help his master instead of turning his predicament to his own advantage. He had to pull himself together, and quickly.

“Are you sure you've lost it? Maybe you just misplaced it. Where were you keeping it, usually?” he asked, trying to sound helpful, and assuage his guilt at the same time. 

“I kept it clasped to a chain, in my breeches-pocket. I vaguely remember putting it on the chest drawer along with the rest of my clothes when I came back from the Dragon two weeks ago, and... well, as you might recall, I spent the better part of the following day in bed with that spectacular redhead...”

“I remember, I remember !” Sam said hastily. “And it was the last time you saw your queer pointer, I gather.”

“Exactly! The day after, it was nowhere to be found. At first I thought May had taken it along with my dirty clothes by mistake, but she assured me she didn't. I asked Togo, that's the lad I was with, but he didn't know what I was talking about, which was to be expected, because I never mentioned the pointer to any of my lovers. I've searched Bag End from top to bottom, to no avail. It's a complete mystery!” Frodo exclaimed. “And it's not as if that pointer was a tiny thing. It's a star-shaped device nearly the size of my palm, it couldn't have disappeared into thin air!” 

Sam's heart skipped a beat, and he felt himself go pale.

“A... a star-shaped device? Made of translucent glass, with a... a kind of silver button in the middle?” he asked faintly. Frodo gave him a startled look.

“Yes! Did you see it?”

“Oh! Mr. Frodo, I'm so sorry! It's my fault you got beaten! Not only did I see it, I took it, too!” Sam wailed in despair. Frodo's hand slipped out of Sam's and he stared at him open-mouthed, consternation and incomprehension written all over his poor bruised face.

“But... but... Why, Sam? I don't understand!”


	3. Explanations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you know what a queer pointer is? Don't worry, Sam too needs some explanations.

I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Frodo. I'd like to help you, but I'm not sure I understand what the matter is... What have you lost, exactly?” Sam asked tentatively.

“My Elvish queer pointer... You know, the one Bilbo gave me before he left... It disappeared two weeks ago, and I can't remember where I put it,” Frodo answered. He sounded slightly surprised at Sam's admission of ignorance.

“I'm afraid I don't know what a queer pointer is, sir,” Sam said regretfully. Well, that settled it. Frodo was never going to confide in him again. Why would he choose an ignorant gardener as his confidant when he had so many sophisticated friends and cousins, who surely knew all there was to know about Elvish technology, at his disposal? 

“Really? I was sure I told you about it,” Frodo said, seemingly unaware of Sam's attack of self-doubts. “Never mind. The queer pointer is a small device that Elrond gave Bilbo the last time he stayed in Rivendell, and he made good use of it, I can tell you! But when he left he decided he didn't need it any more and gave it to me. A wonderful gift, but as I said I think I've started to rely too much on it, and my intuition has gone dreadfully rusty lately. I've learned it the hard way last night.” He gingerly fingered his bruised eyebrow and winced. Impulsively, Sam reached up and grasped Frodo's hand.

“Don't... You'll make things worse!” 

“I'd be hard-pressed to imagine how things could get worse, really. I look like a scarecrow, and I must be the laughing stock of the West Farthing by now. There was quite a crowd at the Dragon yesterday evening,” Frodo said. Sam's first impulse was to soothe his master's distress by denying those allegations vigorously, but he was all too familiar with his fellow hobbits' love of gossip, especially where Bagginses were concerned, and honesty prevailed over blind loyalty. Besides, it was true that Frodo looked a little like a scarecrow, with his oversized robe hanging from his slim shoulders and his multicoloured face.

“Well, maybe you do at that... But a lovely scarecrow, then, and one I wouldn't mind coming near if I were a bird,” Sam blurted out, then bit his lip to keep himself from uttering another stupid comment. To his relief, Frodo didn't seem to mind his servant's foolishness; he even smiled faintly at the silly remark. He didn't let go of Sam's hand either, which Sam found both exhilarating and unnerving. He hoped his palm wouldn't start sweating. Maybe he'd better steer the conversation back to the original subject.

“But, Mr. Frodo, I'm not sure I really understand what a queer pointer does... How does it work, exactly?”

“I'm afraid Elvish technology is somewhat beyond me, Sam, so I can't really explain how it works. But you don't need to understand the technique in order to use it; you just press the button, and voilà! you're set for the night, or for the rest of your life, depending of what you're looking for, of course. But I've never...” Frodo broke off, frowning thoughtfully, and Sam barely swallowed a groan of frustration. Frodo was a talkative hobbit, and like Bilbo he had a slightly pedantic streak that tended to make his explanatory speeches a little too detailed sometimes, but the recent events had clearly subdued his usually articulate self. At that very moment his meanderings were exasperating in the extreme, and Sam had to fight the urge to grasp his master's shoulders and shake a clear explanation out of him.

“Now, now, Mr. Frodo,” he said, keeping his tone respectful but firm. “I can't make head nor tail of what you're saying. You need to make yourself clear. So, what is that queer pointer used for, and what does it have to do with you being beaten?” Frodo's face fell, and Sam felt his master's bony hand tighten in his own.

“I'm sorry, Sam, I'm in such a befuddled state that I can't think straight,” Frodo groaned. “Let's try again. You see, the queer pointer allows its user to determine whether the... er... object of one's affection is susceptible to... er... answer positively to one's advances, if you know what I mean... Well, obviously, you don't,” Frodo said after a quick glance at Sam's face, which was getting redder and redder by the second. “I'll be blunt, then. You know I like boys, yes? It's not always easy to find a willing partner, as you can well imagine. Well, the queer pointer changes colour when directed at a lad who shares my proclivities, and that spares me a lot of tiptoeing around and soothing offended sensibilities... or failing to soothe them, as the case might be,” he concluded, gesturing at his bruised face with his free hand. The other one was still nestled into Sam's, and Sam was starting to wonder whether that was voluntary or just a side effect of Frodo's preoccupation. Either way, he wouldn't be the one who let go first.

“ I hope I didn't shock you, Sam,” Frodo said after a moment's silence.

“Oh no, you didn't!” Sam answered hastily, blushing anew. “I just... I don't know what to say, and I don't know how to help you either. I'm really sorry you lost such an useful thing, and it's not as if we could find another queer pointer in the Shire...” To his consternation, Sam began to realise that he wasn't entirely unhappy about the disappearance of the fateful thing. Of course Frodo being beaten made his blood boil with anger, but the prospect of his beloved -but undeniably promiscuous- master being forced to a little more restraint wasn't without its appeal. As soon as that thought occurred to him, he was filled with shame. What a bad servant he was! He should have been looking for a way to help his master instead of turning his predicament to his own advantage. He had to pull himself together, and quickly.

“Are you sure you've lost it? Maybe you just misplaced it. Where were you keeping it, usually?” he asked, trying to sound helpful, and assuage his guilt at the same time. 

“I kept it clasped to a chain, in my breeches-pocket. I vaguely remember putting it on the chest drawer along with the rest of my clothes when I came back from the Dragon two weeks ago, and... well, as you might recall, I spent the better part of the following day in bed with that spectacular redhead...”

“I remember, I remember !” Sam said hastily. “And it was the last time you saw your queer pointer, I gather.”

“Exactly! The day after, it was nowhere to be found. At first I thought May had taken it along with my dirty clothes by mistake, but she assured me she didn't. I asked Togo, that's the lad I was with, but he didn't know what I was talking about, which was to be expected, because I never mentioned the pointer to any of my lovers. I've searched Bag End from top to bottom, to no avail. It's a complete mystery!” Frodo exclaimed. “And it's not as if that pointer was a tiny thing. It's a star-shaped device nearly the size of my palm, it couldn't have disappeared into thin air!” 

Sam's heart skipped a beat, and he felt himself go pale.

“A... a star-shaped device? Made of translucent glass, with a... a kind of silver button in the middle?” he asked faintly. Frodo gave him a startled look.

“Yes! Did you see it?”

“Oh! Mr. Frodo, I'm so sorry! It's my fault you got beaten! Not only did I see it, I took it, too!” Sam wailed in despair. Frodo's hand slipped out of Sam's and he stared at him open-mouthed, consternation and incomprehension written all over his poor bruised face.

“But... but... Why, Sam? I don't understand!”


	4. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the queer pointer is found, but doed Frodo really need it?

Sam had never felt so close to dying of shame. Unable to look at Frodo, he hid his face in his hands and mumbled, his voice trembling with emotion:

"I meant no harm, Mr. Frodo, I swear! I found it on the chest of drawers, and what with it being star-shaped and kind of shiny and Yule being just around the corner, I... Oh! I'm the stupidest hobbit in the Shire, that's for sure!... I thought it was a... a Yule ornament,” he finished lamely. 

He had expected an explosion of indignation, but Frodo just made a strangled sound, and Sam ventured a peep from behind his fingers. His master's face was flushed and he kept opening and closing his mouth like a landed fish, but he didn't look angry, and Sam realised that the weird noise coming from Frodo was, as incredible as it sounded, a laugh. A slightly hysterical laugh, in truth, but a laugh all the same. Well, you could have knocked Sam over with a feather, and no mistake.

“Oh! Sam! You're priceless! I wonder what Bilbo would have thought of that. It would have made him laugh, I'm sure.” Frodo wheezed, wiping his eyes. “But I must say I'm extremely relieved the queer pointer is not lost, even if I'm well aware I'd better stop relying on it so much.”

“You aren't angry with me?” Sam asked after a moment of bewildered silence.

“Of course I'm not. You couldn't possibly have known that that shiny star-shaped thing was a queer pointer, and that something as outlandish as a queer pointer existed, for that matter. But now, tell me, where did you put it?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably.

“On the Yule tree,” he said in a small voice, glancing anxiously at Frodo's face. His master's cheeks went bright red and he started making that strangled sound again, but this time he managed to keep the giggles under control.

“When I think I spent two weeks looking for it everywhere, and it was right here under my nose in the front room... You can pass on to me stupidest hobbit in the Shire, Sam,” Frodo said finally, shaking his head. “Well, I'd better go get it and hide it somewhere safe, I reckon. I don't want kids playing with it at Yule and pestering me to give it to them. That could be embarrassing.” He stood slowly, readjusted his robe and started shuffling toward the front room.

Sam followed him, deeply relieved that Frodo didn't hold his mistake against him, but also a little worried to see his usually agile master moving so stiffly. Frodo must have taken more than a few punches in the face, but he could hardly ask him to remove his robe and nightshirt so that Sam, conscientious servant as he was, could check his integrity. Gritting his teeth, Sam promised himself he'd keep a watchful eye on Frodo over the next couple of days, and look for any sign of internal damage. And he'd also try his very best to keep him safely tucked inside Bag End and busy enough with preparations for Yule to stop him from feeling the need to come out and use that dratted pointer.

They entered the front room, which was still dark at this time of day. The huge Yule tree glinted softly in the half-light, its towering figure dwarfing the furniture. There must have been dozens of ornaments on it, along with several pounds of tinsel, and for a moment Sam feared he wouldn't be able to locate the queer pointer in the middle of all that bric-a-brac. Maybe next year a little more restraint would be in order, he thought fleetingly. Then he spotted it, blinking demurely as it swayed on its chain, looking perfectly innocuous and even elegant amidst the more colourful ornaments the hobbits preferred.

“It's there, Mr. Frodo! Between the Dwarf playing the trumpet and the winged pig.” 

Frodo nodded and, standing on tiptoe, unhooked the pointer. He inspected it closely, and Sam did the same. It looked exactly like Sam remembered it, a star-shaped translucent crystal set in silver, with an filigree button in the middle. There was no visible mechanism.

“You said it changes colour when you point it at someone who like lads, but what colour does it turn? And does it work for lasses who prefer lasses, too?” he asked, his natural curiosity aroused by the strangeness of the object.

“I wouldn't know about lasses, obviously, but when you aim it at the right lad, the crystal turns bright pink. The brighter the pink, the queerer the lad, if I may put it like that. But if you're aiming it at someone who's not going to be interested, it stays colourless, or even gets a little misty,” Frodo explained, waving the pointer at Sam by way of demonstration. Startled, Sam raised his hand in defence and drew back reflexively, but it was too late.

The crystal began to shine softly, a few dancing sparks lighting up its depths. The swirling particles were a pale rose at first, but as Frodo and Sam watched, mesmerized, the colour started to intensify, and the sparks multiplied until they filled the pointer entirely and the hobbits found themselves in the middle of a pool of bright pink light.

Holding his breath, Sam lowered his eyes and waited, helpless. He could feel the weight of Frodo's gaze on him as an awkward silence stretched between them. They both cleared their throat at the same time, then giggled nervously. Sam swallowed hard. Frodo coughed. A barely audible buzz was coming from the pointer, which was still glittering in Frodo's palm like a small rising sun. 

“Is my queer pointer faulty, Sam?” Frodo asked softly. Sam glanced up, and saw that Frodo was staring at him intently. Not trusting his voice, Sam shook his head.

“I see. It seems I was right about one thing, at least: my intuition is awfully rusty. I'd never have suspected you were queer. Whenever I see you in the street, there's a lass holding on your arm. I was just thinking the other day that you'll soon need a crowbar to detach Rose Cotton from you!”

“Well, it's not strictly true, Mr. Frodo,” Sam protested. “Lasses like me, and I like spending time with them, but not in bed. As for Rosie, I told her a few years ago she'd better not expect I'd proposition her, and she was a little disappointed. Now, she keeps saying it's a shame because I'd make a wonderful husband, but I know she's just joking.”

“Mmmm, maybe she's not... Well, at any rate, she can't be faulted on her taste. I must have been blind,” Frodo mused. He gave Sam an appraising look, and there was an appreciative gleam in his eyes that Sam had never seen before, at least not directed at him. He had often seen it shining in his playmates' eyes, though, and he recognised its significance immediately. His heartbeat quickened and heat suffused him. It was rather cold in the room, but Sam could feel beads of sweat form on his forehead and upper lip.

He was completely at a loss. In his heart of hearts, he had longed for years to have Frodo look at him that way, blue eyes darkened with unmistakable desire. But now that it appeared that his dreams were about to come true, he was paralysed with indecision. He wanted Frodo with all his might, but Sam's previous lovers had all been working hobbits who were ready for a bit of fun and a roll in the hay -often literally, Widow Rumble's old hayloft being a favourite trysting place amongst the Hobbiton youth-, but nothing more. He never had to worry about his manners, the calluses on his hands and the state of his linen. More importantly, he never had to worry about the state of his heart. 

What if Frodo, after sharing his bed with Sam, decided it was just a brief fling and resumed collecting lovers? Sam was not sure he could bear it. Actually, he was certain he couldn't. He would have to hand in his notice and find work elsewhere, as far away as possible from Bag End and its master, and wouldn't that be a fate worse than death?

The contact of a cool hand on his burning forehead forced him out of the whirlwind of fear, desire and confusion that was playing havoc with his senses, and he realised that Frodo was standing very close to him, and that his expression had gone from lustful to concerned.

“Are you all right, Sam? You're as white as a sheet, and you look like you're running a fever. Maybe you should sit down for a moment.” Ignoring Sam's weak assurances that he was perfectly well, Frodo put a firm arm around Sam's waist and led him to the settee. They sat down and apologised in unison as the old cushions dipped under their combined weight and made them bump into each other. They both shifted nervously for a few moments, then Sam realised that Frodo's arm was once again wrapped around him and they were pressed against each other from shoulder to hip. The position should have felt awkward, but Sam discovered that the contact of Frodo's warm body against his own had a calming effect on his frayed nerves. His brain stopped spinning in circles, and he gave Frodo a tentative smile. His master smiled faintly in answer, but he still looked thoughtful, and maybe a little troubled. He hadn't taken his eyes off Sam's face for a second.

“Were you afraid I'd take advantage of you if I knew you were queer, Sam?” he asked. Sam shook his head vehemently.

“Oh no, Mr. Frodo! I know you'd never do such a thing! I didn't talk about it... well, I'm just a servant, and to tell you the truth I didn't think that would be of any interest to you.” Frodo frowned.

“You're not just a servant, Sam. I regard you as a friend, and I care about you,” he assured, his arm tightening comfortingly around Sam's waist. “Besides, you're in a position to know I'm not overly concerned about such things as station or wealth when it comes to bedding handsome lads... And I've always thought you were a handsome lad. If I'd known we were of the same... persuasion, so to speak, I'd have tried something years ago!” 

“Are you... Are you trying something right now, Mr. Frodo?” Sam blurted out. All of a sudden, he felt quite brave, and even a little giddy. Maybe sitting so close to Frodo was going to his head, or the queer pointer had some emboldening side-effect Frodo had forgotten to mention. But whatever the reason for this change of heart, Frodo didn't let Sam enough time to start wondering about it. He leaned closer and laid his hand on Sam's cheek. 

“Yes, I think I am,” he murmured, his mouth within a hair breadth of touching Sam's. “I do hope you have no objection...”

It was Sam's turn to make a weird strangled sound. Fortunately, Frodo had no problem interpreting it as the sign of the enthusiastic acceptance Sam was trying to convey. Sighing happily, he wound his free arm around Sam's neck and drew Sam to him.

The kiss was tentative at first, just a delicate brush of lips, but it was enough to take Sam's breath away; he gasped, and his lips parted, a helpless movement that allowed Frodo to slip the tip of his tongue inside Sam's mouth and caused the kiss to go from shy to wild in a matter of seconds. Sam put his arms around Frodo's shoulders and the rest of the world disappeared, along with his misgivings and his fears. Even the Gaffer's opinion about what a proper behaviour towards his betters should consist of vanished from his mind like a wispy puff of pipe smoke in a stiff wind. 

Right now Frodo didn't seem to have any complaint about the way Sam was behaving toward him. By the time they came up, very reluctantly, for air, Frodo was flushed, panting, and an unmistakable hardness was tenting the front of his oversized robe. As for Sam, he could have sworn the fabric of his sturdy corduroy breeches had never experienced such a strain, a fact that was not lost on Frodo.

“I gather you won't mind postponing your preparations for Yule for a little while,” he purred, eyeing the bulge in Sam's groin appreciatively and licking his lips in anticipation. “But before we're too far in the thick of the action, you'd better hide this somewhere safe,” he said, smiling a little self-consciously, and handed Sam the pointer, which was glowing faintly now, as if it was filled with dying embers. Sensing Sam's hesitation, Frodo put the device firmly into his gardener turned lover-to-be's callused palm. 

“I insist, Sam. I really want you to take it. I trust you to find a secure place for it. Besides...” he gazed at Sam with eyes filled with an irresistible melange of desire, merriment and hope , “... who knows, maybe I won't need it again."


End file.
